City on fire, p.11
City on Fire, page 11
‘Sorry to disappoint,’ said Scotty, looking at his jeans. ‘You’ve found a body?’
‘Yeah, he’s a bit mashed I’m afraid. One of the trucks dumped him. Bound to be another bin sleeper. Wanna have a look?’
‘That’s what we’re here for,’ said Scotty, following the man towards a stadium-sized warehouse.
Since Brighton and Hove City Council had replaced individual waste collections with huge communal wheelie bins, they had become the shelter of last resort for the homeless and late-night revellers alike. Thankfully, most woke to the sounds of the bin lorry machinery hooking on just as they were about to be lifted. Some weren’t so lucky and they were tipped into the crusher, only emerging when the lorry was emptied. Half the problem for the police was identifying the mangled corpses.
It seemed that Baxter and his team were well used to the protocols when a body was found; all operations had paused, which didn’t seem to bother the workers as they vaped away outside the guarded area.
‘Just over here.’
The stench almost felled Scotty as he stepped into the gloomy cavernous dump. Saira seemed to be bearing up better but the cocktail of rotting food, excrement and a thousand other stomach-churning odours made keeping his breakfast where it belonged his sole priority. If he so much as hinted he was about to puke, word would be round the police station faster than a dose of dysentery.
As he approached, the vague shape of the body emerged from the surrounding waste like a magic eye picture. It was almost impossible to distinguish where the body’s tattered rags stopped and the garbage started.
‘Well, he’s definitely dead,’ said Saira.
‘Thank you, Dr Bannerjee,’ was all Scotty could risk saying in case solid matter chased the words from his mouth.
He sneaked a hand to his nose as he neared the mass. By some fortune it lay face up and the jaws of the truck, whilst making mincemeat of his lower limbs, had spared his head.
Despite his initial reaction, Saira had made a great call in choosing to respond to this, as they had the best chance of identifying the corpse if it was a rough sleeper.
The site manager watched on as Scotty girt himself to move in for a closer look. Saira hovered behind him.
The light wasn’t great and, while the man’s head was intact, the remnants of what looked like a kebab and dirty nappy made his task tricky. He shone his torch in vain.
‘You got a stick, or a pole or something? I need to get a look at his face,’ he called to Baxter.
‘Sarge, should we take some photos first?’ asked Saira.
‘Yes, I was about to,’ he lied.
He took out his work phone and snapped half a dozen pictures of the man’s head as they had found him. When he’d finished, Baxter handed him a litter-picker. Scotty gingerly clipped the nappy and moved it to one side, then did the same with a lump of pitta bread. Nudging a few stray teabags and chips aside, Scotty held his nose and went in for a second look.
In an instant his nausea deserted him and something between rage and excitement took over. He flashed three more photos, then stood up.
‘Right, I want everyone out of here,’ Scotty barked to Baxter, despite the fact the site manager was the only one in the warehouse.
‘What, has he been murdered?’ came the reply as he did as he was told.
‘I’ve no idea but, if it’s who I think it is, he’ll be glad he died before I met him,’ muttered Scotty as he dialled Bob Heaton’s mobile.
Despite having his arm locked into a cast for the foreseeable future, and the indescribable agony he endured with every step, Bob was in his office. The murder of DC Pete McElroy had plunged every officer and civilian, past and present, into deep mourning. As usual when any member of the police family died, colleagues from across the country replaced their Facebook profile picture with a blue horizontal line on a black background as a mark of respect.
Bob would never shake the feeling that he was responsible. But there was no time for self-pity and reflection. He and DS Luke Spencer had a trial to prepare for, and they needed to work out if that was still viable with their star witness dead.
Bob rested his injured arm on the desk, shooing away a pile of files that he dared not open. He brought up the latest CPS memos and updates from Luke on his computer, just as the sergeant walked into the room.
Unlike Bob’s default look of having dressed drunk and in the dark, Luke was incapable of appearing anything but ready for an audience with the king. In his spare time he played semi-professional football in the National League South and bore the look of a sportswear model.
He sat down without Bob having to invite him.
‘Boss, you sure you should be here?’
Bob grinned. ‘Did you know you are the first person to say that? Oh, no, hang on, you’re the hundred and first. What else would I be doing? Trusting you to run the show?’
Luke shook his head and smiled. ‘Fair enough,’ he said as he tapped at the laptop on his knees. ‘How are you feeling about Ged? I mean Pete.’
‘Gutted, guilty, worried all his hard work was for nothing. That’s just for starters.’
‘Me too,’ said Luke. ‘I never met him but you still feel it, don’t you?’
‘A hundred per cent. Have you told CPS?’
‘Yes, and they don’t see it as so much of a problem to the trial as we do.’
‘Really?’ Bob shifted in his chair, then his back screamed for him to make no sudden movements.
‘Yep. I’ll ping you this. It’s their latest advice, which confirms what they told me on the phone just now.’
Bob waited for his emails to refresh, opened the most recent one from Luke and scanned the attachment.
He nodded. ‘Blimey, I wasn’t expecting that. So, providing we can produce the original recordings and Nick, the cover officer, is available to give live evidence, we’ve got an arguable case to have Pete’s evidence admitted.’
‘That’s the gist of it, guv. On the phone they were at pains to point out that it’s not a foregone conclusion and we’re no doubt going to get battered by the defence, but at least they’re not throwing the towel in.’
‘Did they say whether the jury would be told Pete had been murdered?’
‘Yeah, I asked that. They thought we might lose that argument. They would just be told he’d died, but I’ll take that if we can get all the conversations in.’
‘Me too,’ said Bob. ‘Have you given your statement yet about this?’ He raised his plastered arm a fraction.
‘Yes, on Friday. I don’t think I was much help, mind you. For a detective, my powers of observation were on a par with Mr Magoo’s.’
‘I’ll use that in your next appraisal.’
Luke was about to reply when Bob’s phone rang. He raised a finger to ask the sergeant to hold on, then accepted the call.
‘Hi mate, what can I do for you?’
Bob felt his face drop as he took in what Scotty was telling him. He wedged the phone between his shoulder and ear then typed, bringing up the incident log on the computer-aided dispatch.
‘Give me the CAD number,’ he said, and typed again, then beckoned Luke to come round to his side and pointed to the screen.
As he listened he interjected with the occasional ‘Right’ and ‘I see’.
When Scotty had finished, it was Bob’s turn.
‘Send me a photo of the body and don’t let anyone near it until Luke and I get there. Let Major Crime know. If this is the bloke who killed Lizzie, they’ll be all over it. Great work Scotty.’
Bob stood up. ‘Grab some keys, Luke and, this time, try to get me back here in one piece.’
Half an hour later, Bob, Luke, Scotty and Saira had been joined by the duty senior investigating officer, DCI Claire Jackson. All had pored over the body-worn video footage of Lizzie’s killer and the corpse in front of them.
‘Shame we couldn’t get any offender’s DNA from Lizzie,’ said Claire. ‘Still, despite him being mangled by a dustcart, I’m certain it’s the same person.’ They all nodded and mumbled their agreement. ‘I’m not treating it as suspicious yet but as an unexpected death under investigation. I want to know who he is, why he killed Lizzie and how he got here. Thanks everyone, leave it to us now.’
All but Claire stepped away from the body and Bob wandered out of the warehouse. He glanced back and saw Scotty’s head drop. He was about to walk over, then had second thoughts. The big man needed a few moments alone.
Instead, he found the number of someone who should know and tapped it. It was answered on the second ring.
‘Bob, don’t tell me you’re at work,’ said Jo.
‘Where else would I be, ma’am? You got a minute?’
‘One sec,’ she said and Bob heard a door close then footsteps. ‘Go ahead.’
‘Take this how you want, but a couple of pieces of good news.’
‘God, I could do with that,’ she said.
‘It looks like the trial is still on. It’s not going to be easy but CPS think we’re in with a chance providing we, or rather they, can persuade the judge.’
‘Excellent, and the other bit?’
Bob described what had happened at the refuse centre and how Scotty, having his wits about him, might just have closed the Lizzie murder enquiry. Jo’s response was more guarded than he’d expected.
‘Assuming Scotty is right, it’s a bit of a stretch to accept he happened to turn up dead, don’t you think?’
‘It does happen,’ argued Bob.
‘On the telly maybe, but given what Scotty’s unauthorised source said …’
‘Spanners?’
‘Yes, bloody stupid name by the way. Given what Spanners said, we can’t assume this bloke, whoever he is, acted alone. Nor can we assume he wasn’t taken out himself.’
‘As in murdered?’
‘Why not? He’s served his purpose, but in front of witnesses. If there is this big conspiracy going on, the sooner he’s out of the way, that’s one less vulnerability. Let me speak to Claire Jackson. She needs to put some effort behind this. See you later.’ She ended the call, leaving Bob to stare at the mute handset, wondering why he’d stoked her fire in the first place.
19
Sir Ben paced up and down the lounge, seething. He paid the carers to arrive at 8 a.m. sharp when he needed them here all day and, time and again, they treated that as a ‘from’ rather than a ‘by’ time.
He’d let it get to 8.15 a.m., then he’d give the agency a rocket and their final warning. As his watch ticked to 8.11 a.m., the gate buzzer sounded and, seeing the Totalcare-liveried Peugeot waiting, he buzzed it through. On its tail was a white and turquoise Toyota Avensis with Brighthelm Taxis emblazoned on the side.
Sir Ben cursed as he dashed for the front door, determined that the driver of the first car didn’t meet the second. He gave the taxi driver the international signal for ‘I’ll be five minutes’, and ushered the carer in. The mid-fifties woman, who looked like she’d lived twice her years and skipped more than the odd meal on the way, couldn’t stop apologising, blaming traffic, her grandchildren and a host of other excuses Ben couldn’t give two shits about. ‘I’ll be back about five. Call me if you need anything,’ he said as he strode out of the door, shouting, ‘Bye Mum,’ almost as an afterthought.
He slammed the door and was in the back of the cab in seconds. ‘Jesus, Tony. There was a time when people actually turned up on time.’
‘You said 8.15 a.m. so that makes me four minutes early by my watch,’ the driver replied with disdain.
‘Not you mate, that bloody care agency. I can’t remember the last time they were actually punctual.’
‘Give them a break, Ben. Not everyone’s as reliable as we are.’ Sir Ben caught Tony’s eyes twinkling in the rear-view mirror. Tony Evans was one of those characters who defined Brighton’s blue-collar elite. As well as owning the city’s biggest taxi company, Brighthelm, outright, he also had controlling stakes in most of his rivals’ firms, and ran a multimillion-pound commercial cleaning and environmental services company plus three late-night restaurants. His control over the door supervisors at the major Brighton clubs was hazier, certainly nothing Companies House could confirm, but it was an open secret that he pulled all their strings. To the ill-informed he easily passed as a humble workaholic, grafting to make ends meet, rather than the ruthless truth.
‘Are you sure we’re safe to talk in here? That CCTV camera is making me nervous.’
Tony pulled out onto the busy road, weaved through the lanes then turned right towards the A27 bypass. ‘Don’t let appearances deceive you, nothing in here is what it seems. Great cover, eh?’
‘What, swanning about in an eye-smarting cab with your company’s name and number plastered on the side? Hardly under the radar.’
‘You’re kidding aren’t you? How many Brighthelm taxis do you see on an average day?’ Tony darted out on the roundabout and off at the second exit, which would take them to Worthing.
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Well have a look.’
It was then that he realised almost every other car seemed to be identical in shape and colour to the one he was in, and they all had either Brighthelm Taxi or one of Tony’s rivals’ names on the side. ‘Oh, I see.’
‘Yep, no one notices us. Unless we cut you up, that is. Perfect, eh?’
Sir Ben grunted in grudging agreement. ‘Where are we headed?’
‘I thought we’d look like we were going to your office, but I’ll find some traffic jams to give us some time.’
‘Fine. Listen, I haven’t thanked you properly for sorting out our problem so promptly on Saturday.’
Tony met Sir Ben’s eyes in the mirror. They both knew this was the only place they could speak of what had happened after the football.
‘I’d like to say it was no problem, Ben, but I’d never lie to you.’
‘What, getting the gun?’
‘No, that wasn’t the problem. You try getting hold of a sniper who can embed himself in a hedge then shoot straight with an hour’s notice. Not to mention two cyclists happy to ride in the firing line.’
‘That’s what I pay you for.’
‘Talking of which …’ said Tony, as he glared in the mirror.
‘It’s on its way. Listen, obviously the weekend’s events have highlighted some chinks in our armour.’
‘I thought something must be up when you suddenly wanted your main man and an undercover cop slotted.’
‘I’m not worried about Challenor, but I was sloppy trusting him in the first place.’
Tony didn’t answer, but trundled along the inside lane as they entered Southwick Tunnel.
‘Did you hear me?’
‘’Course I did, I just don’t know what you want me to say. I could have told you years ago that he was a liability. A gob on a stick, that one.’
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘You never asked,’ said Tony as he eased his speed in reply to the sea of red lights illuminating the near distance.
‘Fair point. Look, I need someone with more business acumen to run that side of things. Someone who understands strategy, is discreet but has the wherewithal to do what’s needed, no questions asked.’
Tony stared ahead. ‘Are you kidding? Listen, I don’t want to offend you but I’m not exactly scrabbling round for work at the moment. Anyway, I’m not even sure what it is you’re doing. I mean I know what you do, but why?’
‘Well I haven’t got a business plan I can share if that’s what you mean, but it’s really simple. Like it or not, we all profit from the city being the drugs capital of the UK.’
‘Former.’
‘Exactly, and don’t tell me you’ve not felt the pinch of us losing that crown – and I don’t mean just by you creaming off the street dealers. It’s the goods and services a drug problem relies on. Substitute drugs, hostels, treatment services, cleaning and of course the tourism pound of being a party city.’
‘Is this about this Synthopate you’re trialling?’
‘Yes, but it’s not just Respite Pharmaceuticals who’ll benefit if we get the licence to produce, it’s the whole city. Wider, even. The UK.’
‘But I thought it was supposed to get people off drugs. Isn’t that just going to accelerate the pinch you’re on about?’
The traffic ground to a halt as they emerged into daylight, only to be met with yet another stretch of carriageway improvement works.
‘That’s the beauty of it. It’s a massive sticking plaster. A fucking expensive one to develop but a sticking plaster nonetheless. It’s never going to cure anyone, they’ll just get addicted to that instead, so in effect we get to print our own money. The more heroin there is on the street, the more addicts who’ll need treatment and the more people on a lifetime prescription of Synthopate. But the police seem to think it’s in everyone’s interests to cure addiction, dry up the demand and stop the flow of drugs in, just to save a few pitiful lives. That can’t happen.’
‘How do I come into this? I don’t like getting my hands dirty you know.’
The traffic lights at Shoreham Airport turned green, although you wouldn’t know it as the logjam remained stubbornly stuck.
‘I wouldn’t expect you to. I’ve got people in place who can provide muscle, those who can access the users, I’ve even got someone at Whitehall pulling strings – but I need someone to oversee it all and, as I say, have the capability to come down hard on whoever gets in our way.’
‘While you sit back and watch.’
‘I’m the main investor. I’ve put millions into the trial and if it doesn’t succeed I’ll lose everything.’
‘What’s in it for me?’
Sir Ben named a fee which was twice what he’d paid Challenor, but he knew to attract someone with Tony’s contacts and influence, he needed to talk big numbers.
The traffic thinned and Tony didn’t answer for a good minute, which seemed like ten.
‘Here are the conditions.’
Sir Ben punched his thigh in glee. ‘I’m all ears.’
‘I get full control. You can say what you need to achieve but you leave it entirely up to me how I go about that. No arguments and no questions. Oh, and no red lines. If someone needs taking out, I’m free to make that happen. I don’t mess about, Ben, but in return you’ll be isolated from all the mucky business. You can honestly claim innocence. But there must be total trust. You breach that and, well, you’ve seen what I can make happen and I’m not entirely sure how your dear old mum will cope on her own, are you?’
